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The official ceremonies were over. The confetti cannons had run out of ammo, but the energy on the field was self-sustaining. We had moved past the stage of disbelief and entered the stage of delirium.
We reached the dugout, our sanctuary. Music was already blasting from a portable speaker, Punjabi beats provided by the DJ, Shikhar Dhawan (via FaceTime on Rohit's phone).
I held two trophies. The Player of the Tournament and the World Cup itself. They were heavy, cool to the touch, and gleaming under the floodlights.
I walked back onto the pitch, away from the dancing huddle. The team watched me, wondering what I was doing.
I placed the T20 World Cup trophy on the grass. Next to it, I placed my Player of the Tournament trophy.
I stood back. I didn't scream. I didn't pump my fist. I simply spread my hands, palms open, and shrugged. A nonchalant, easy-going gesture. Is that all?Was it supposed to be hard?
It was a pose of supreme arrogance but earned through supreme effort.
Hardik Pandya saw it and roared with laughter. "Look at him! He thinks he's playing in the gully!"
The team rushed over. We formed a circle around the trophies. Virat Kohli grabbed the World Cup. "Let's take it for a walk!"
We did the victory lap. I had the Indian flag draped over my shoulders like a cape. Rishabh Pant was doing somersaults on the outfield. The crowd hadn't left. They stayed, singing Vande Mataram, their voices echoing into the Dubai night.
It was pure. It was innocent. It was cricket.
Meanwhile, in India.BCCI Virtual Boardroom.Time: 11:30 PM IST.
While the players danced in Dubai, five men sat in front of their laptops in various high-end offices across India. The mood was celebratory, but the undercurrent was sharp, calculating, and political.
The Attendees:
Sourav Ganguly (President): Sitting in Dubai hotel room.
Jay Shah (Secretary): In Ahmedabad, phones buzzing constantly in the background.
Rajeev Shukla (Vice-President): In Delhi.
Arun Dhumal (Treasurer): In Himachal.
Jayesh George (Joint Secretary): In Kerala.
Jay Shah: "Congratulations, gentlemen. We have done it. T20 World Cup Champions. The revenue projections for the next cycle just went up by 40%."
Rajeev Shukla: "A historic win. The way the boys played... magnificent. And Virat finally gets his T20I trophy."
The mention of Virat Kohli changed the temperature of the virtual meeting.
Sourav Ganguly leaned forward, adjusting his spectacles. "Yes. Virat gets his trophy. It is good for Indian cricket. We are now champions in all three formats effectively. We hold the Test Mace, we won the 2019 ODI World Cup, and now this."
Ganguly paused, his voice dropping to a serious, administrative tone.
"But we need to discuss the elephant in the room. Or rather, the Lion."
Arun Dhumal: "Kohli?"
Ganguly: "His influence. It is... absolute. He controls the dressing room. He controls the narrative. With Ravi Shastri, they built a fortress that even the Board found hard to penetrate sometimes. A captain becoming bigger than the Board is never healthy for the sport long-term. We saw it in the 90s; we don't want it again."
Jay Shah: "Ravi's tenure ends today. He is not extending. That chapter is closed. We have Rahul Dravid coming in. Rahul is a systems man. He respects the hierarchy. He will bring discipline and structure, not just aggression."
Rajeev Shukla: "And Virat stepping down from T20 captaincy... that was a surprise, but a welcome one. It dilutes the power concentration. He remains ODI and Test captain, but the grip is loosened."
Ganguly: "Exactly. But a vacuum is created. The public needs a face. A hero. If we let Virat remain the sole face of Indian cricket even after stepping down, his shadow will loom over the new captain."
Jay Shah: "We don't need to look far for the new face, Dada. The boy who won us the World Cup tonight."
Aarav Pathak.
The name hung in the digital air.
Arun Dhumal: "He is perfect. Young. Good-looking. Articulate. And performance-wise... he is a freak. The public is already calling him the next King. We shift the narrative. We market him as the future. The 'Prince' who is ready to rule."
Ganguly: (Nodding slowly) "Aarav is the logical choice. But there is a complication. We cannot control him like we control other young players."
Jayesh George: "Why? He is 21. He is on a central contract."
Ganguly: "He is the son of Rajat Pathak. The heir to the Pathak Group. His family just bought the Gujarat Titans for 7,777 Crores. They bought NDTV. His family's other business too under Pathak Group. He has more liquid cash than all the cricket board combined. He doesn't play for our money. He plays for passion. If we try to strong-arm him, he can buy his own league."
Jay Shah: "We don't strong-arm him, Dada. We align with him. He is smart. He respects Virat, but he is his own man. We push the narrative that Aarav is the torchbearer. It naturally reduces the reliance on the 'Kohli-Shastri' brand. We make Aarav the face of the BCCI's new era."
Rajeev Shukla: "It's a delicate balance. Kohli is still the ODI & Test captain. We cannot alienate him. But yes, promoting Aarav... it creates a dual-power center. It balances the equation."
Arun Dhumal: "Agreed. We start the PR machine. Aarav Pathak: The Future of India. It's an easy sell after tonight. The boy is a goldmine."
Ganguly: "Fine. We move forward with Dravid and the 'Young India' narrative led by Aarav. Now, logistics."
Jay Shah checked his notes.
"After the win, the team would have 2 days rest, then the team flies out of Dubai."
"Day 3: The Homecoming."
Jay Shah: "They land in New Delhi on the 17th morning. We have arranged a breakfast meeting with Prime Minister Modi Ji. He wants to personally congratulate the team for bringing honor to the nation. It will be a televised event."
Rajeev Shukla: "Excellent. And the reward?"
Jay Shah: "The BCCI will announce a cash prize of ₹150 Crores for the squad. Players, support staff, everyone included. It's the biggest prize pool in history. A statement of our financial muscle."
The members nodded in approval. 150 Crores was a staggering amount, but fitting for a team that held world dominance.
Ganguly: "And Mumbai?"
Jay Shah: "From Delhi, they fly to Mumbai. We are going old school. We are recreating 2007."
A smile touched Ganguly's lips. He remembered the scenes.
Jay Shah: "An open-top bus parade. From Nariman Point, along Marine Drive, the Queen's Necklace, all the way to the Wankhede Stadium. We are expecting 500,000 people on the streets. The Mumbai Police Commissioner has been briefed. Security will be Presidential level."
Ganguly: "Good. Let the country celebrate. And let them see their new heroes. Aarav Pathak standing next to the World Cup on an open bus... that is the image that will define the next decade of Indian cricket."
Jay Shah: "Meeting adjourned. Gentlemen, enjoy the night. We have work to do."
The screens went black one by one. The politics of cricket never slept, even in victory.
Back in Dubai.
I sat in the corner of the dressing room, watching the madness. The trophy was sitting on the table, covered in champagne and fingerprints.
Virat came over and sat next to me. He looked drained but happy.
"You know what happens next, right?" Virat asked, opening a bottle of water.
"We sleep?" I hoped.
"No," Virat grinned. "We go home. Have you ever seen a victory parade in Mumbai, Aarav?"
"Only on TV. 2007. I was a kid."
Virat leaned back, his eyes gleaming with nostalgia. "Get ready, Prince. You think the 100 million followers on Instagram is crazy? Wait until you see Marine Drive. You are about to see what it really means to be a World Champion in India."
I looked at the trophy. I looked at my team.
"I'm ready," I said.
And I was. The game was won. The politics were starting. But for the next few days, we belonged to the people.
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November 15, 2021. 12:04 AM. Team Hotel Lobby.
The bus ride back had been a riot of noise, but the hotel lobby was a chaotic scene of sugar and champagne. The hotel staff had prepared a cake that looked more like a wedding tier than a cricket celebration—a monstrosity of blue fondant, gold leaf, and a miniature edible World Cup trophy on top.
"Cut it! Cut it!" Rishabh Pant chanted, banging a spoon against a glass.
Virat Kohli, usually the one to take center stage, stepped back. He grabbed my shoulders and physically shoved me towards the knife. "Go on, Aarav," Virat grinned, his eyes still shining. "You won it. You cut it."
I took the knife. Rohit Sharma placed his hand over mine. Virat placed his hand over Rohit's. The Trinity of Indian cricket. We sliced through the fondant. A cheer went up that probably woke up the guests on the 10th floor.
Then came the feeding frenzy. I was force-fed cake by fifteen different people. I had icing in my hair, on my nose, and down the collar of my jersey. "Okay, okay! Enough!" I laughed, wiping cream from my eye. "I need a shower!"
"Go, go!" Ravi Shastri waved us off, holding a glass of red wine. "Curfew is... whenever you wake up. Enjoy the night, boys."
The team dispersed towards the elevators, a noisy blue stream heading for the upper floors. I got into the lift with Suryakumar Yadav and Ishan Kishan. They were debating who had the best dance moves on the bus (it was definitely not Ishan).
"Room 502," SKY said, pressing the button. "Party in Hardik's room in 20 minutes?"
"Maybe," I lied smoothly. "I'm exhausted. might just crash."
"Boring!" Ishan booed. "World Champion and sleeping at 1 AM? Shameful."
I laughed, stepping out on the 5th floor with them. I walked to my room, waited for them to enter theirs, and listened for the click of the lock. Then, I turned around. I tiptoed back to the elevator and pressed the button for the 4th Floor.
The hallway on the 4th floor was quiet. The thick carpet absorbed the sound of my sneakers. I felt like a spy in a bad movie, looking over my shoulder to ensure no paparazzi or teammates were lurking.
I reached the double mahogany doors of Room 403. I knocked. Three soft taps. The code.
The door flew open almost instantly. Shradha stood there. She was still wearing the Indian jersey I had given her, now slightly oversized and looking incredibly comfortable. Her hair was down, cascading over her shoulders.
Before I could say a word, she grabbed my t-shirt and yanked me inside. She kicked the door shut with her heel.
"You took forever," she whispered.
I didn't answer. I wrapped my arms around her waist, lifted her off the ground, and spun her around. She let out a small, happy scream, wrapping her legs around me. I kissed her. It wasn't the gentle, reassuring kiss of the night before. This was passionate, hungry, fueled by the adrenaline of victory and the overwhelming relief of survival. It tasted of victory cake and strawberry lip balm.
I carried her into the living room, not breaking the kiss until my lungs demanded air. I set her down gently on the plush sofa, but didn't let go of her hands.
"Hi," I breathed, resting my forehead against hers.
"Hi, World Champion," she beamed, tracing the line of my jaw. "You smell like champagne and cake."
"Occupational hazard," I grinned.
She pulled me down so I was sitting next to her. She looked at me, her eyes searching mine. "How are you? Really? The adrenaline must be crashing."
"It is," I admitted, leaning my head back against the cushion. "My hands are still shaking a little bit. When I was out there... facing Southee in the last over... Shradha, I was terrified."
"You didn't look it," she said softly, taking my hand and massaging the palm. "You looked like you owned the place. The swag. The attitude."
"That's the Aura," I chuckled. "But inside? Inside, I was calculating probabilities. If I miss this ball, do we lose? If I hit it straight, is the fielder there? It's so loud out there, you can't hear yourself think."
"But you did it," she said fiercely. "That last six... Aarav, I thought Dad was going to faint. He grabbed my hand so hard I think I have bruises. He was shouting 'Go! Go! Go!' like he was batting himself."
I laughed at the image of the God of Cricket losing his cool. "He's the reason I play. But you... seeing you in the stands... that was the reason I won."
She blushed, looking down. "Cheesy."
"Truth," I said. "When I saw you crying... I knew I had to finish it. I couldn't let you leave Dubai sad."
We sat there for an hour, just talking. I told her about the chat with Virat before the 19th over. I told her about the stump I broke. I told her about the feeling of the ball hitting the bat for the winning run—that split second of pure, weightless perfection.
She listened, her head on my shoulder, absorbing every word. She was my safe harbor. The only place where I didn't have to be the next cricket king or any rich man.
1:30 AM.
The sound of a key card in the lock made us both jump. We scrambled apart. Shradha sat up straight, smoothing her hair. I stood up, pretending to examine a painting on the wall.
The door opened. Sachin Tendulkar walked in. He looked tired but happy. He was carrying a blazer over his shoulder. He stopped when he saw us.
"Aarav?" Sachin raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing on his lips. "I thought you'd be partying with the boys. Or sleeping."
"Just... wanted to say goodnight, Dad," I said, turning around. "And check on Shradha. It was a stressful match for her."
"Stressful for everyone," Sachin sighed, dropping his blazer on a chair. "My heart rate is still 110. But what a win. What a win."
He walked over to the mini-bar and poured himself a glass of water. He looked at me, his expression turning serious.
"You played a special knock today, son. That 96... it was mature. You didn't slog. You constructed it."
"Thank you, Dad," I said. I took a deep breath. "Actually... I needed to talk to you. About something important."
Sachin paused, glass halfway to his mouth. He looked at me, then at Shradha.
He smiled gently. "Aarav... look at the time. It's 1:30 AM. You have just won a World Cup. Your brain is frying with dopamine. Big conversations... they need clear heads. And sunlight."
He took a sip of water.
"Let's have breakfast tomorrow. Just the three of us. We can talk then. About everything."
I exhaled. He was right. "Okay. Tomorrow."
"Go sleep," Sachin said kindly. "You're a hero today. Enjoy the sleep of a champion."
I nodded. I turned to Shradha. I couldn't kiss her in front of him, so I just squeezed her hand. "Goodnight, Shradha."
"Goodnight, Aarav," she whispered, her eyes promising a thousand conversations for tomorrow.
I walked out of the suite, my heart pounding for a different reason than cricket.
9:00 AM. Room 502.
I woke up because Suryakumar Yadav was singing loudly in the shower. I groaned, rolling over. My body felt stiff, but the good kind of stiff. The 'Brett Lee' recovery system was working overtime; the pain was already fading into a dull ache.
I grabbed my phone. Social Media Notifications: 99+.WhatsApp: 500+ messages.
I opened Google News. The algorithm knew exactly what I wanted to see. The headlines screamed at me in bold letters.
THE TIMES OF INDIA:"THE CROWNING OF KING AARAV: India Lifts World Cup after 14 Years."
ESPNcricinfo:"Kohli Passes the Baton: Aarav Pathak's 494-Run World Cup Signals a New Era."
THE HINDU:"The Complete Cricketer: 150kmph Pace, and a Cool Head. Is Aarav Pathak the Upgrade Indian Cricket Waited For?"
DAILY MAIL (UK):"The Rich Man Delivers: Pathak Sinks New Zealand in Dubai Thriller."
I scrolled through the articles. They were calling me the "Next Kohli," the "Prince," the "Future Captain." They were dissecting my technique, my bowling action, even my chewing gum habit.
"Upgraded version," I muttered, reading a line from Akash Chopra's column. "He is Virat Kohli with a turbo engine attached. Imagine if Kohli could bowl 150kmph yorkers. That is what we have found."
I shook my head. The hype machine was in full flow.
I showered and went down to the breakfast hall. The team was already there. The moment I walked in, silence fell. Then, Rohit Sharma stood up and started a slow clap. The whole team joined in. The hotel staff joined in. Even the other guests in the restaurant stood up.
I blushed, walking to the buffet line with my head down.
I loaded my plate with eggs and toast and sat down at the 'cool table' with Virat, Rohit, Pant, and Hardik.
"Look who it is!" Rishabh Pant grinned, holding up a newspaper. "The 'Upgraded Version'. So, Aarav bhai, since you are upgraded, can you pay for my breakfast?"
"Shut up, Rishabh," I laughed, stealing a piece of bacon from his plate.
"No, seriously," Hardik chimed in, scrolling through his phone. "This article says you are 'The amalgamation of Tendulkar's class, Kohli's aggression, and Lee's pace'. Bro, leave some adjectives for us mortals."
"They are just excited," I shrugged. "Next week they will call me a donkey if I get a duck."
"True," Virat nodded, sipping his black coffee. "But enjoy it today. You earned the ink."
Virat picked up a tablet. "But this one is my favorite." He read aloud: "Is Virat Kohli now the second-best batsman in the team?"
The table went silent. That was awkward.
Virat burst out laughing. "Finally! Someone else can take the pressure! Aarav, from now on, all press conferences are yours. All the questions about form? Yours. I am retired from T20 leadership. I am just a passenger on the Aarav Express."
"Don't put that on me, Skip," I groaned. "I'm just a kid."
"You stopped being a kid when you hit Southee out of the stadium," Rohit said, buttering his toast. "By the way, the solar panel company called. They want to send you a bill for the damage."
"Send it to the BCCI," I quipped. "Jay Shah promised a bonus."
We laughed. It was easy. It was light. The pressure of the last month had evaporated, leaving behind the warm glow of achievement.
But as I ate my eggs, my mind drifted to the lunch appointment. Room 403. Sachin. The talk.
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November 15, 2021. Dubai Team Hotel.
The breakfast euphoria had faded. The team had dispersed to their rooms to pack. The flight to New Delhi was scheduled for tomorrow, marking the beginning of the victory tour. But for me, the hardest part of the World Cup wasn't the final over against Tim Southee. It was the conversation I was about to have.
I stood outside Room 403 again. Last night, I had stood here with a heart full of romance. Today, my heart was heavy with the weight of a decision that would shake the foundations of the IPL for me.
I knocked.
Sachin Tendulkar opened the door. He was dressed in a crisp linen shirt, looking fresh despite the late night. Behind him, Shradha was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through her phone. She looked up and gave me a small, encouraging smile. She knew what was coming. She was the only one who knew.
"Good morning, Dad," I said, stepping inside.
"Morning, Champ," Sachin smiled, gesturing to the chair opposite him. "You look serious. Did the adrenaline finally wear off?"
"Something like that," I sighed, sitting down.
The room was quiet. The curtains were drawn against the harsh Dubai sun, creating a cool, somber atmosphere.
"So," Sachin clasped his hands, leaning forward. "You said you needed to talk. Serious talk."
I took a deep breath. I looked at Shradha for strength, then looked the God of Cricket in the eye.
"Dad, you know the IPL auction is coming up next year. The mega auction."
Sachin nodded. "Yes. Two new teams coming in. Gujarat and Lucknow. It's going to be big."
"My family... The Pathak Group," I started, choosing my words carefully. "We acquired the Gujarat franchise. Through our subsidiary, Torrent Group. The bid of 7,777 Crores... that was us."
Sachin's eyebrows shot up. He was a man who understood business as well as cricket, but even he was surprised by the magnitude of the revelation. "That was you? I read the news. That is a massive investment, Aarav."
"It is," I agreed. "But it's not just an investment. It's a vehicle."
I leaned forward, my voice gaining conviction.
"I have loved playing for RCB. Virat bhai is my idol. AB is my mentor. We won the title in 2020. I won the Orange and Purple caps. I am comfortable there. I am loved there."
"But?" Sachin prompted gently.
"But comfort doesn't build a legacy," I said. "If I stay at RCB, I will always be the 'Prince'. I will always be Virat's deputy. I will be the star player, yes, but I won't be the face. I won't be the leader."
I looked at the World Cup Player of the Tournament trophy sitting on the coffee table where I had left it last night.
"Look at the greats, Dad. MS Dhoni is Chennai Super Kings. Rohit Sharma is Mumbai Indians. Virat Kohli is RCB. They built those franchises in their image. They created a culture. I want that. I want to build my own kingdom, not just inherit a room in someone else's castle."
Sachin sat back, a look of profound understanding dawning on his face. He knew this hunger. It was the same hunger that made him carry the nation for twenty-four years.
"So," Sachin said softly. "You want to captain Gujarat."
"I will captain Gujarat," I corrected, respectful but firm. "That is the plan. I want to build a team from scratch. I want to pick the players. I want to set the culture. I want to learn how to lead men before..."
I hesitated.
"Before what?"
"Before I have to lead India," I finished. "Virat bhai sees me as the next in line. He has told me. But I can't learn captaincy in the nets. I need the heat. I need the pressure of the toss, the field changes, the man-management. And the only place to get that experience before getting the Indian captaincy... is the IPL."
Sachin remained silent for a long moment. He looked out the window, then back at me. A smile touched his lips—not a smile of amusement, but of respect.
"It is a brave decision," Sachin said. "Leaving a settled environment, leaving Virat... it is not easy. The fans might not understand initially. They will call it betrayal."
"I know."
"But," Sachin leaned in, his eyes intense. "You are right. To be a King, you must first learn to wear the crown. And you cannot wear a crown if someone else is already sitting on the throne. You need your own territory."
He stood up and walked over to me, placing a hand on my shoulder.
"You are doing the right thing, Aarav. You are playing for your passion, for your growth. Loyalty to a friend is important, but loyalty to your own potential is supreme. If you stay in your comfort zone, you stagnate."
I let out a breath I had been holding for days. "Thank you, Dad. I needed to hear that from you."
"Now comes the hard part," Sachin warned. "You have to tell Virat."
I winced. "Yeah. That's the part I'm dreading."
"Be honest," Sachin advised. "Don't sugarcoat it. Don't make excuses. Tell him exactly what you told me. Tell him about the vision. Virat respects ambition. He respects fire. If you tell him you want to lead, he will understand. He was you once."
"I will," I said, standing up.
"And Aarav?"
"Yes?"
"When you captain against Mumbai Indians," Sachin grinned, "don't expect any mercy from me or Rohit."
I laughed. "I wouldn't dream of it."
I hugged Shradha. She whispered, "Go get 'em, Tiger," in my ear.
I walked out of Room 403. One approval secured. Now for the Boss.
The Long Walk to Room 501
The elevator ride to the 5th floor felt like a journey to the gallows. My stomach was churning.
Virat Kohli wasn't just my captain. He was the man who had picked me when I was a nobody. He was the man who had fought for me in selection meetings. He was the man who had literally kissed me on the cheek in front of the world last night.
Leaving him felt like a betrayal. But I replayed Sachin's words in my head. Loyalty to your potential.
I reached Room 501. The door was slightly ajar. Music was playing inside—some Punjabi hip-hop.
I knocked.
"Come in! Door's open!" Virat's voice rang out.
I pushed the door open. The room was a mess of open suitcases. Virat was in the middle of packing, folding his India jerseys with meticulous care.
Virat looked up, beaming. "Oh Aarav! Help me, I was looking for my sunglasses, don't know where I put it."
Virat stopped folding. He looked at me - really looked at me. His smile faded slightly, replaced by the sharp, analytical gaze of a captain who senses a shift in the wind.
"Sit down," Virat said, pointing to the unmade bed. "You look like you're about to tell me someone died."
I sat down. I clasped my hands together, staring at the carpet.
"Skip... Virat bhai," I started. "I need to talk to you. About next year. About the IPL."
Virat leaned against the dresser, crossing his arms. He didn't speak. He just waited.
"You know the retention deadline is coming up," I said. "RCB wants to retain us. You, me, Maxwell, Siraj."
"Obviously," Virat nodded. "We are the core. We are going to build the dynasty."
"I can't stay," I blurted out.
The silence that followed was deafening. The hip-hop music seemed to get louder, mocking the tension.
Virat didn't explode. He didn't shout. He just tilted his head. "You can't stay? Why? Is it the money? Because if it's the purse, I'll talk to the management. You deserve the top bracket. Take the 17 crores. I don't care."
"It's not the money," I said quickly. "You know I don't play for money."
"Then what? Is it the management? Did Hesson say something?"
"No," I stood up, unable to sit still. "Bhaiya, it's... it's about me. It's about who I want to be."
I walked to the window, looking out at the Dubai skyline, gathering my courage.
"You remember what you told me? After the match last night? And during the England series? You said you see me leading India one day. You said in 3 or 4 years, I would be the one."
"I meant every word," Virat said softly. "You are the natural successor."
I turned to face him.
"How can I lead India if I've never led a team?" I asked. "I play under you in India. I play under you in RCB. I am learning, yes. But I am learning how to follow. I am not learning how to lead."
Virat's expression shifted. The confusion was replaced by curiosity.
"My family," I continued, dropping the bomb. "We bought the Gujarat franchise. The new team. They want me to be the Captain."
Virat's eyes widened. "Your family bought... wait, the 7,000 crore bid? That was you?"
"Yes."
"Holy sh*t," Virat breathed. A small, impressed smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Okay. That changes things."
"I have a chance to build something from scratch," I said, my voice passionate now. "Like Mahi bhai did with CSK. Like you did with RCB. I want to pick the players. I want to set the field. I want to make the mistakes and learn from them. I want to know what it feels like to have the weight of the result entirely on me, not just as a player, but as the man in charge."
I took a step closer.
"I love RCB. I love playing with you. It's the easiest thing in the world. But if I stay... I'll always be the 'Prince'. I want to be a great captain and in media terms a king, Bhaiya. And to be a King, I need my own kingdom."
I stopped, breathless. I waited for the anger. I waited for him to call me ungrateful.
Virat stared at me for a long, agonizing minute. He uncrossed his arms. He looked down at his feet, then back at me.
Then, he started laughing.
It wasn't a mocking laugh. It was a loud, genuine, hearty laugh.
"The Prince wants a Kingdom," Virat chuckled, shaking his head. "I should have known. I saw the way you walked out to bat against Pakistan. That wasn't a man walking. That was an Alpha."
He walked over to me.
"Aarav," Virat said, his voice dropping to a serious, brotherly tone. "If you had left for money, I would have been disappointed. If you had left because you had an ego problem, I would have been angry."
He put both hands on my shoulders.
"But you are leaving because you want to grow. You are leaving because you want to prepare yourself to take the burden off me in the future. How can I be angry at that?"
I felt a lump in my throat. "So... you're okay with it?"
"I'm not okay with it," Virat grinned. "I'm going to miss you. Who is going to score runs for me now? Maxwell? He plays one good game in five!"
We both laughed.
"But seriously," Virat said. "You are doing the right thing. You need this. The Indian team needs this. If you captain Gujarat for three years, handle the pressure, win matches... when I finally hang up my boots as the Test captain or ODI captain, I will hand the baton to a ready-made leader. Not a rookie."
He squeezed my shoulders.
"Go for it. Build your team. Make it strong. But remember one thing."
"What?"
"When Gujarat plays RCB," Virat's eyes flashed with that trademark competitive fire. "I will not hold back. I will sledge you. I will bring Jofra (if we buy him). I will come at you hard."
"I expect nothing less," I grinned, the Viv Richards Aura flickering to life. "And when I bowl to you, Skip... wear a chest guard."
Virat laughed, pulling me into a hug. "Get out of here before I change my mind and lock you in the room until retention day."
I hugged him back. "Thanks, Bhaiya."
"Go," Virat said, pushing me towards the door. "Go be a Captain."
I walked out of Room 501 feeling lighter than air. The secret was out. The permission was granted. The blessing was given.
I walked down the corridor, my mind already racing. Gujarat Titans.Captain: Aarav Pathak.Auction Strategy.Coaching Staff.
I needed a coach. Someone who understood the modern game. Someone calm to balance my aggression. Maybe Gary Kirsten? Maybe Ashish Nehra?
The homecoming parade was day after tomorrow. The celebration would be wild. But in my head, I was already in the auction room, holding the paddle.
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November 17, 2021. Indira Gandhi International Airport, New Delhi.Time: 10:00 AM.
The charter flight from Dubai touched down on the tarmac with a gentle thud that signaled the end of our desert campaign and the beginning of the victory lap. As the plane taxied towards the private terminal, I looked out the window.
It was a sea of humanity.
Thousands of fans had gathered outside the airport walls, climbing trees, standing on cars, waving the Tricolor. The sound of dhol drums penetrated the pressurized cabin.
"Ready?" Virat Kohli asked, standing up and adjusting his sunglasses. He looked fresh, despite the flight. He handed me the trophy.
"You take it out," Virat insisted. "The first glimpse belongs to you."
The doors opened. The humid Delhi air rushed in, smelling of dust and winter. We walked down the stairs. The moment my foot hit the tarmac, a roar went up from the staff and security gathered below.
I walked to the front of the pack. I held the silver T20 World Cup trophy by its handles. I raised it high above my head.
The scream from the crowd outside the perimeter fence was deafening. I smiled, the morning sun glinting off the silverware. It was heavy, but in that moment, it felt weightless.
We were whisked away to the team hotel, the ITC Maurya. The drive was a blur of police sirens and waving fans. We had barely an hour to freshen up.
The dress code was simple but iconic: Blue India Jersey on top, Jeans below. It was the uniform of champions.
By 11:30 AM, we were back in the cars. A convoy of black SUVs with tinted windows, flanked by the Delhi Police and the Special Protection Group (SPG). We were heading to the most powerful address in the country.
7 Lok Kalyan Marg. The Prime Minister's Residence.
As the heavy iron gates swung open, the noise of the city faded, replaced by the serene chirping of birds and the crunch of gravel under tires. The manicured lawns were pristine. Peacocks roamed freely. It was a sanctuary of power.
We stepped out of the cars. Sourav Ganguly and Jay Shah were already there, looking sharp in formal suits, contrasting with our casual victory attire.
We were ushered into the main hall—a room that breathed history. The walls were adorned with paintings of India's past glories. A semi-circular arrangement of chairs was set up.
Then, the door opened.
Prime Minister Narendra Modi walked in.
He was wearing his signature kurta-jacket combo, a warm smile on his face. He didn't walk like a politician; he walked like a host welcoming family.
"Aaiye, aaiye! Hamare champions aa gaye!" (Come, come! Our champions have arrived!)
We stood up. He walked down the line, shaking hands with everyone. He hugged Virat. He patted Rohit on the back. When he reached me, he stopped. He looked me up and down, his eyes twinkling.
"Aarav Pathak," the PM said, gripping my hand firmly. "The Bullet Train. I watched the final. That six... it landed in my heart."
"Thank you, Sir," I smiled, feeling a surge of pride.
We sat down. The seating was orchestrated. The Prime Minister sat in the center chair. To his Left: Ravi Shastri (Head Coach) and Rohit Sharma. To his Right: Virat Kohli (Captain) and Me (Aarav Pathak). Behind us sat the rest of the squad, with Jay Shah and Ganguly on the flanks.
The atmosphere wasn't stiff. It was like a grandfather talking to his grandsons.
"First of all," PM Modi began, looking at Virat. "Congratulations. Not just for this trophy. But for the habit."
He gestured to the room.
"2019 World Cup. 2021 Test Mace. And now, the T20 World Cup. You have given the country a 'Hat-trick' of happiness. In these difficult times, with the pandemic, you have given the nation a reason to smile. That is a service greater than any policy."
Virat nodded humbly. "It is an honor, Sir. We play for the badge."
"Ravi," the PM turned to the coach. "Your tenure is ending on a high. You turned this team into wolves. I like that aggression. New India is not afraid to look the world in the eye."
"Thank you, Sir," Shastri boomed. "We just wanted to show that we can win anywhere. England, Australia, Dubai. The geography doesn't matter."
Then, the PM turned to his right.
"Aarav," he said. The room went quiet. "I was reading about you. 21 years old. You faced criticism in the IPL. People said you were finished. And you answered them with 494 runs and 18 wickets."
He leaned forward.
"That temperament... facing the last over in the final... what were you thinking?"
I cleared my throat. "Sir... I was just thinking that I can't let the flag down. The run rate was high, but I knew if I stayed calm, the bowler would panic."
"Calmness," the PM nodded approvingly. "That is the key. Sthitaprajna (steady wisdom). You have shown maturity beyond your years."
He looked at the whole group.
"You know, when you won against Pakistan... the whole country didn't sleep. But what I liked most was the grace. You didn't just win; you won hearts. That is the true power of India. Soft power."
Jay Shah spoke up. "Sir, the boys have worked very hard in the bubble."
"I know," the PM said. "The bubble is hard. Staying away from family... sacrifices. But look at the result. Today, every child in a village wants to be Virat, wants to be Rohit, wants to be Aarav. You are inspiring a generation."
He stood up. We all stood up.
"I have a small request," the PM smiled mischievously. "Can I hold the cup?"
Virat and I brought the trophy forward. We placed it in his hands. He held it, feeling the weight.
"Heavy," he laughed. "But the responsibility of the nation you carry is heavier. And you carry it well."
And the conversation happened long, you could watch it on YouTube too. 😅
We posed for the official photograph. The Prime Minister in the center, holding the World Cup, flanked by the Captain and the Prince.
As we were leaving, the PM pulled me aside for a split second.
"Pathak ji," he whispered. "I heard you bought a team in Gujarat?"
I froze. "Yes, Sir."
"Good," he winked. "Make Gujarat proud. We like winners there."
I grinned. "I will, Sir."
We walked out of the PMO, the sun shining brighter than before. The official seal of approval had been given. We were not just a cricket team anymore; we were national treasures.
Next stop: Mumbai. The Parade. The real party was about to begin.
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November 18, 2021. Mumbai.Time: 5:00 PM.
They call Mumbai the City of Dreams. But as our charter flight descended towards Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport, looking out of the window, it didn't look like a city anymore. It looked like a living, breathing organism draped in azure.
From 20,000 feet, I could see the coastline. The famous Queen's Necklace—Marine Drive—wasn't glittering with streetlights yet. It was glittering with people. A solid, unbroken line of humanity stretching from Nariman Point to the Wankhede Stadium.
Rohit Sharma, a Mumbai boy born and bred, pressed his face against the window next to me. "I have seen traffic in Mumbai," Rohit whispered, his voice hushed with awe. "But I have never seen this. The roads are gone. There is no tarmac. Only people."
Virat Kohli walked down the aisle, his camera phone recording. "Boys, get ready. Dubai was a party. This? This is a festival."
We landed. The water salute from the fire engines arched over the plane—a rainbow forming in the mist. We walked out onto the tarmac, the humid Mumbai air greeting us like an old friend. But there was no time for rest.
The bus was waiting. Not the luxury Volvo we used in Dubai. This was an open-top double-decker bus, painted in the colors of the Indian flag, with CHAMPIONS 2021 emblazoned on the side in gold letters.
We climbed to the top deck. We were wearing special jerseys, white T-shirts with "Champions" printed on the front and the BCCI logo on the heart with two stars above it. I had the World Cup trophy in one hand and the Player of the Tournament trophy tucked under my arm.
The convoy moved out of the airport VIP exit. And the madness began.
It usually takes 45 minutes to get from the airport to South Mumbai with a police escort. Today, time was irrelevant.
As we reached Nariman Point, the starting point of the parade, the bus came to a standstill.
I walked to the front railing of the bus. I looked ahead. I stopped breathing for a second.
It wasn't a crowd. It was an ocean. Thousands? No. There were hundreds of thousands. People were hanging from trees, perched on bus stops, leaning out of the windows of the Art Deco buildings lining the promenade. Every inch of road, every inch of the footpath, every inch of the sea wall was covered in blue jerseys, tricolors, and faces painted with joy.
The roar hit us like a physical wave. It was a deafening, continuous sound—a mix of drums, trumpets, screams, and chants.
"INDIA! INDIA!""AARAV! AARAV!""KOHLI! KOHLI! ROHIT! HARDIK! INDIA! "
The bus driver honked, a futile gesture. The police were trying to clear a path, but the love was too dense. We were moving at a crawl, maybe 2 kilometers per hour.
Virat Kohli grabbed the trophy from me. He stood on the edge of the bus, lifting it high. The crowd surged forward. A wave of hands went up, phones flashing, flags waving frantically. It looked like a field of wheat swaying in a storm.
"Look at them!" Virat screamed over the noise, grabbing my shoulder. "This is for them! This is why we play!"
I looked. I saw an old man crying, holding a framed photo of the team. I saw a group of college students dancing on top of a stationary taxi. I saw mothers holding up babies who wouldn't remember this day but would be told about it for the rest of their lives.
Rishabh Pant was going berserk. He had climbed onto the railing (held back by Ishan Kishan) and was leading a chant with a megaphone someone had thrown up to him. "Hindustan Zindabad!" Pant screamed. "ZINDABAD!" The crowd roared back, shaking the foundations of the city.
I stood next to Hardik Pandya. We didn't say anything. We just watched. The sun began to set over the Arabian Sea, casting a golden-pink hue over the scene. The lights of the Queen's Necklace flickered on. The flashlights from a hundred thousand phones turned on simultaneously, creating a galaxy of stars on the ground.
It was magical. It was overwhelming.
A young girl, maybe ten years old, managed to squeeze through the barricade. She ran alongside the bus, holding up a sign. AARAV PATHAK - MY SUPERHERO.
I saw her. I leaned over the railing. I took off my cap—the special 'Champions' cap we were given. I threw it down to her. She caught it. She clutched it to her chest. I blew her a kiss.
"You're going to cause a riot," Rohit laughed, patting my back. "But good throw."
The journey from Nariman Point to Wankhede usually takes ten minutes. It took us two hours. Two hours of pure, unadulterated adoration. We signed balls and threw them into the crowd. We took selfies with the sea of humanity as the backdrop. We danced to the Nashik Dhol beats that were pulsating from every corner.
By the time the bus turned towards the iconic Wankhede Stadium, it was dark. But the stadium was glowing like a spaceship.
The gates opened. The bus drove straight into the stadium compound. We hopped off, legs slightly shaky from standing for hours, voices hoarse from screaming.
We walked down the tunnel. The same tunnel where the 2011 World Cup was won. The walls echoed with the ghosts of the past. We walked up the stairs and onto the field.
33,000 people. Packed to the rafters. Not a single empty seat. They had been waiting for hours.
When we stepped onto the grass, the noise was louder than Marine Drive. It was concentrated. It was acoustic violence.
"Vande Mataram... Vande Mataram..."
The entire stadium was singing. It wasn't a chant; it was a hymn. The national song reverberated off the stands, raising goosebumps on my arms that felt like mountains.
We walked to the center. A stage was set up. BCCI Secretary Jay Shah and President Sourav Ganguly were waiting.
We did a lap of honor. I walked with Virat and Rohit. We took turns holding the trophy. As we walked past the North Stand, the crowd started a new chant.
"Aarav bhai! Aarav bhai!"
I stopped. I lifted the trophy towards them. They went ballistic. I saw a banner: 5-0 AT LORDS. 100 AT DUBAI. KING OF MUMBAI.
I felt a lump in my throat. This was my city now. This was my country.
We gathered in the center. The DJ played "Chak De India." And then, the dancing started.
Virat Kohli and Rohit Sharma, the two seniors, the two legends, forgot their age. They grabbed hands and started spinning in a circle. Suryakumar Yadav pulled me into the center. "Dance, Prince!" SKY shouted.
I laughed. I let go. I did the Bhangra. I did the 'Ganpati Dance'. I jumped. I screamed. Hardik Pandya did a backflip. Rishabh Pant was trying to lift Ravi Shastri (and failing).
Then, the music stopped. The microphone was handed to Virat Kohli.
The crowd went silent instantly. Respect.
"Mumbai!" Virat roared. "YEAH!" "Thank you! Thank you for waiting! Thank you for believing!"
Virat looked at the trophy in his hand. "This... this belongs to you. We are just the caretakers. This belongs to every single Indian who prayed for us."
He turned to the team. He put his arm around me. "And this guy," Virat pointed at me. "The future. Aarav Pathak."
The crowd chanted my name again.
Virat handed me the mic. My hands were shaking. Not from nerves, but from emotion. I looked around the stadium. I saw the flashlights. I saw the tricolors.
"I don't have many words," I said, my voice echoing through the stadium speakers. "I just have a feeling."
I touched the badge on my chest.
"When I was a kid, I watched the 2011 Final on TV. I saw MS hit that six. I saw Sachin sir lifted on shoulders. I dreamed of this moment. Today... living it with you all... it is better than the dream."
I paused, looking at the section where the families were sitting.
"We promised we would bring it home," I said, my voice gaining strength. "And we are home!"
I lifted the trophy. "BHARAT MATA KI..." I screamed. "JAI!" 33,000 voices responded. "BHARAT MATA KI...""JAI!"
The fireworks exploded from the roof of the Wankhede. Rang De Basanti started playing. We ran. We ran around the ground, waving flags, hugging fans who reached over the barricades.
The Quiet Moment on the Pitch
An hour later, the stadium had emptied slightly, but thousands still remained, refusing to leave. The team sat in a circle on the pitch. The same pitch where legends were made.
We were tired. We were happy. I lay back on the grass, looking up at the night sky. The fireworks smoke still lingered.
Rohit Sharma lay next to me. "Good parade?" Rohit asked, closing his eyes. "Best day of my life," I admitted.
"Better than the hat-trick?" "Different. That was for the win. This... this is for the soul."
Virat walked over, holding a bottle of champagne. He poured a little on the pitch—a libation to the cricket gods. "We did it," Virat whispered. "We actually did it."
I sat up. I looked at my captains. I looked at my brothers. The journey from the calibration nightmare to the King of Wankhede was complete.
"So," Hardik asked, breaking the silence. "What now?"
"Now?" I said, standing up and picking up the World Cup. "Now, we rule."
I walked towards the tunnel, the trophy on my shoulder, the echoes of Vande Mataram guiding me home.
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Author's Note: - 8123+ Words 😮😮{Long, way tooooooooooooooooooooooooooo long chapter...}
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